


The Truth Will Set You Free

by Siyah_Kedi



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: A distinct lack of molecular knowledge, Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-01 14:11:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siyah_Kedi/pseuds/Siyah_Kedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robert Fischer isn't stupid, but he doesn't like getting his hands dirty.  His hired goons kidnap Arthur to get some information out of him in some unusual ways.  </p>
<p>Somehow, Eames resists the temptation to pry and just does his best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Truth Will Set You Free

**Author's Note:**

> I am really, truly awful at summaries. And warnings. And sometimes, writing. Occasionally I come out with something I love unconditionally, but most of the time I'm just writing to get the images out of my head. I know nothing about Africa or barbiturates, except what my encyclopedias told me, so apologies for glaring mistakes.

After inception, they agreed to drop off the grid for a while, lay low and see how things pan out. So Eames doesn’t worry too much when three months pass by in total radio silence before Arthur calls him. He doesn’t try to hide the fact that he’s pleased with the phone call, however.

“Good to hear from you!” It’s the absolute truth. He developed something of a soft spot for the point man over the last few years, and it’s deepened into a genuine respect and maybe a little something more during the inception job. “How’s tricks?” 

“Eames,” Arthur says, not bothering with pleasantries. He doesn’t bother responding to any of Eames’ attempts at small talk, either. “I think I might be in trouble.” 

Eames’ mind immediately leaps forward, adrenaline jolting him out of the pleasant haze he’s managed to sink into over the last ten or so weeks. He’s planning passports and cash deposits and getaway cars, plane tickets and safe houses in a flash, both a little frightened and a lot pleased that Arthur’s called _him_ to help him.

“I just want you to keep an eye out,” Arthur continues. “Keep yourself safe.” He rings off, and Eames is halfway into a foul temper as he realises that Arthur’s not calling for help – not _Arthur,_ the indestructible and unflappable point man – no, he was just calling to give Eames a heads up. Then he realises that on some level, he’s important to Arthur for him to call like that out of the blue. He calls Ariadne a few hours later, to see if Arthur’s passed this warning along to anyone else. She’s pleasantly surprised to hear from him, but tells him no, she hasn’t heard from anyone in months. They catch up, he promises to drop by Paris sometime soon and treat her to lunch, and then he calls Cobb.

He forgets the time difference, however, and is treated to the not-quite-delightful sound of Cobb growling into his ear. 

“Somebody better be dead.” 

“Good to hear from you too, Cobb, and how are the kids?” 

“Fuck you, Eames, it’s three in the goddamn morning. What do you want?” 

Eames thinks, _oops,_ but he keeps his tone flippant. “Oh, nothing much. I just got a call from Arthur saying he might be in trouble, and a warning to keep my head about me. I’m just touching base with everyone to make sure you’re all alright.” 

There’s silence on the other end of the line for so long that Eames begins to think that maybe Cobb hung up on him. Then, “Arthur called _you?_ ”

“Shocking, isn’t it?” 

“Why would Arthur call you?” 

“He hasn’t called anyone else,” Eames supplies. “I just spoke to Ariadne. She misses you, by the way, you might at least drop her an email or a post card or something.” 

“Ariad- oh, right. Right. I will. Well, thank you, Eames, for ensuring that I won’t be sleeping again tonight.” 

“Not my intention,” Eames says truthfully, and closes his phone to hang up. He drums his fingers on the table for a moment, then calls Yusuf. The chemist is only a few blocks away, but Eames learned the hard way not to ever just show up unannounced. 

“Good timing,” Yusuf greets him. “I just finished up the latest batch, had my finger on the numbers to ring you and see if you wanted to try it out for me.” 

“I’m not sure,” Eames says, and retells Arthur’s succinct phone call.

“Hm,” Yusuf says. “I haven’t heard from anyone else in months, you know that. I wonder why he called you?” 

“Fair broke Cobb’s poor brain,” Eames says, chuckling. He swings over to his laptop while Yusuf considers out loud why Arthur would have called Eames of all of them, but no one else. It’s easy enough to get into the phone company’s records and see where Arthur was calling from. 

It’s shocking enough that he interrupts Yusuf’s monologue. “Did you know Arthur was in Africa?” 

“What? No. Did I or did I not just finish telling you that I haven’t even gotten so much as an email from anyone but you since we got out of LA?” Yusuf shifts something around, then says, “Maybe that’s why he called you. If he’s in trouble here in Africa somewhere, you might as well have a target painted on you.” 

“According to the GPS, he’s on a straight shot towards Kenya,” Eames says, studying the map. “Maybe it was his own twisted way of asking for help?” 

“When has Arthur ever asked for help?” 

It’s only been a few hours since Arthur called him, but Eames is suddenly feeling on edge and tense, like something’s gone wrong. “I don’t know,” he says, vaguely. “Look, I’ll call you back.” 

Yusuf’s voice sharpens. “You think he’s _actually_ in trouble?” 

“I don’t know. It’s just a hunch. I’ll get back to you.” He hangs up and then immediately dials Arthur’s number. It goes to voice mail after about five rings. He redials. Voice mail. 

_Third time’s a charm, right?_ He tries again. This time, someone answers. It’s not Arthur. 

“You’re one persistent bastard, you know that?” 

The voice is unfamiliar, accented. American, but not the states. He thinks maybe it’s Canadian, but he hasn’t heard enough Canadians to place it right away. “Yeah, so I’ve heard. How did you get this phone?” 

“Arthur handed it right over.” There’s a dark amusement in his voice, and Eames stops himself from swearing out loud only by the slimmest of margins. He pulls up an email in one tab, letting Yusuf know Arthur’s definitely in trouble, and refreshes the phone trace in another. Now in Kenya, en route to Mombasa. 

“Liar,” he says. “Arthur never parts with his phones. I should know.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows it’s the wrong thing to have said. Canada-man’s voice becomes sharp, interested. 

“So you’ve worked with Arthur before,” he says. “What did you say your name was?” 

“Joey.” 

A little fainter, as if Canada-man has pulled the phone away from his mouth, Eames hears him talking. “Hey, Arthur. Pay attention a moment. You know any Joey?” 

And then, faintly: “no.” 

Something in Eames’ chest relaxes slightly. Arthur’s still alive. For a moment, his brain stutters over that fact, but then he realises that Arthur sounds… _wrong._ It’s definitely him, but something’s off. 

“Okay, not-Joey,” Canada-man says, coming back. “We’re headed for Kilindini. If you want him back, you can meet us there at the coast. Might make things a little easier.” 

The phone cuts off. Eames calls back, but it just rings and rings. He figures they’ve probably dumped it somewhere. He calls Yusuf instead. 

“I may need some backup. Some guy’s got Arthur, and they’re headed for the Kilindini coast.” 

“I’ll be there with bells on,” Yusuf promises, and Eames arms himself up. He’s even got a fanny-pack with more ammunition than even he knows what he’ll do with, but he wants to be prepared, just in case. It wouldn’t do to run out of bullets before Arthur was safe, after all. He checks the GPS coordinates again, and sees that they’re still approximately an hour away at their current speed. Plenty of time.

He’s got confidence that Yusuf will be there, and when he gets to the Kilindini coast and sees Yusuf’s van nearby, he’s comforted. Yusuf will keep himself out of the way until it looks like Eames needs him, and then he will burst in and fuck some shit up. With nothing better to do, he wanders along the shoreline and chain smokes.

A fresh-faced young man walks up to him at some point. “Joey?” he asks, like they’re two friends suddenly reunited by chance. It’s the guy he’d been talking to on the phone. 

“C-man,” Eames says, taking his cues from the kidnapper and hiding his tension beneath a smile. “Good to see you.”

“Oh, sure. Call me Mickey, by the way. I have what you’re looking for in that bungalow over there,” he points, and Eames glances at it, expecting to be ambushed. 

It doesn’t come until they’re inside, and he can see Arthur tied to a chair, head lolling vacantly. There’s a sharp pain across the back of his skull, the men taking advantage of his shock. In three months, though, Arthur’s lost a stunning amount of weight and looks like death warmed over. His hair is long and there are bags under his eyes, and that’s all Eames takes in before he’s waking up in an uncomfortable wooden chair, similar to the one he can still see Arthur in across the room. The point man seems to have come back to himself a little bit from whatever they’d done to him before Eames arrived, because at least now his eyes are open and he’s looking around.

He blinks too slowly, though, and his gaze is unfocused. He’s never seen Arthur looking more sexy, and the danger of their situation sinks like a stone into his stomach. 

“Fuck you!” Mickey says, explosively. Eames glances over and sees him pushing a larger man into the wall. “I told you not to give him anything else until I got back, what the fuck were you thinking you dumbass?” 

Eames figures it’s only been a few minutes, and when he sees a third man rifling through his fanny pack carefully, his guess is confirmed. Mickey exchanges a few more words with his henchman, and then settles himself onto a much more comfortable-looking chair than the one Eames is in. 

The grin he flashes at Eames is almost sociopathic in nature. “We’ve come up with something interesting,” he says conversationally. “And as long as Donald hasn’t poisoned your buddy there, we’ll begin our first experiment.” 

Eames winces to hear Arthur described as ‘his buddy.’ The point man himself just stares dully at them for a moment. Then he seems to catch sight of Eames and his gaze sharpens. 

“Eames?” 

Mickey looks thrilled. “ _Eames,_ ” he says, absolutely delighted. Eames wonders if he pulled flies wings off as a child, or if he skipped straight to setting puppies on fire. The light in his eyes is maniacal. “I knew your name wasn’t Joey. Oh, you wouldn’t be _the_ Eames, would you?” 

“What?”

“The dreamshare impersonator…guy,” Mickey says, proving that he doesn’t know anything. 

The one called Donald stirs. “Forger,” he supplies. Mickey nods.

“Are you Eames the Forger?” 

“Sometimes,” Eames says. “Are you the Mouse?” 

Mickey laughs. “Not today. Today I’m the cat. And I’m the luckiest man in the world. Two for the price of one!” He turns to Arthur. “Arthur, sweetheart. What’s your full name?” 

Arthur is silent for a moment, and Eames thinks, _He’s trying to think of a convincing lie through the drugs._ He knows Arthur’s real name, because he’s a nosy bastard, but he also knows Arthur changes names with jobs as easily as most people change their underwear. Arthur breathes deeply, and then says, “Arthur.” 

Undeterred, Mickey just nods. “Arthur what?” 

“Arthur… Jason. Moss.” 

Eames feels his jaw drop. Mickey looks triumphant. Even Donald, who’s been impersonating a lump of stone after providing Eames’ job title, looks a little smug, a little startled. 

“I told you I could make you a truth serum,” the third, unnamed man says. “One that even compels the speaker. If that’s all, I’ll be out of here. The less I know about this, the better.” He collects two suitcases and slips out, Mickey waving him off. 

Eames’ mind is reeling. They’ve dosed Arthur with some sort of truth serum, apparently. One that _works._ His second or third thought is, _Yusuf would love this._ His first is _Oh, shit, Arthur’s going to be so pissed off when he recovers from this._

“So,” Mickey says. “Arthur Moss. How long have you been in Dreamsharing?” 

“Five years,” Arthur says, and his voice is distant and almost breathy. There’s still no real expression on his face, and Eames can’t tell if he’s aware or not. 

“How did you get started? What’s your specialty?” 

“C-Cobb,” Arthur says, and for the first time he’s visibly fighting it. “I run… point,” he adds. 

Mickey jumps out of the chair and begins to pace. Eames sits quietly, working on getting his hands out of the rope they’ve tied him with. 

“I know Cobb,” Mickey says. “What does that mean, running point? What do you _do?_ ”

Despite himself, despite the circumstances, Eames is intrigued. He’ll probably never hear Arthur talk this much about himself again. And he has always wondered about the scope of Arthur’s job.

“Information,” Arthur says, and pauses. “I collect … information on the mark. Their family. Habits. Anything that looks interesting. Anything we might…need.” He takes another deep breath, like he’s not getting enough oxygen. “I find…spaces for us to work out of. I collect the team members. I test compounds. I build mazes. Penrose stairs,” he adds, and a small smile flickers across his face. It’s totally unguarded, and for the first time Eames realises how much Arthur _really, truly just loves a paradox._ “I make the plans work. I protect the extractor. I distract the projections.” 

The list keeps going, and Eames is feeling slightly breathless just listening to it. He never even guessed Arthur put in so much work. He’d always thought that being a forger was the hardest job on an extraction team, but he’s beginning to rethink that opinion. 

Mickey doesn’t look anywhere near as interested as Eames is. “Okay, shut up for a second.” Arthur complies, and Mickey writes things down. Probably taking notes on the things Arthur’s said. 

“Okay,” Mickey says again. “What was your last job?” 

Eames flinches, expecting to hear Arthur spill on the inception of Robert Fischer. Arthur sighs. 

“Simple extraction on Linda Miller.” 

“Details, Arthur, you’re killing me here.” 

“Good,” Arthur breathes, and Eames nearly chokes on an aborted chuckle. “Linda Miller. Thirty four years old, brown hair to her waist. Green eyes because she wears contacts. Naturally brown eyed. Married for five years, two kids. Grew up in Alabama, moved to New York when her husband got promoted. On vacation in Algiers. Her husband wanted to make sure she hasn’t been cheating on him.” 

“Jesus,” Mickey says, and if Eames weren’t trying to pretend he _is_ the chair, he might have agreed. Since it wasn’t a question or a directive, Arthur keeps going.

“She wears a size six in jeans, seven in shoes. Bra size is 38 D because she had breast enhancement surgery just before she was married. Originally a 32 B. She wore braces as a child because of her overbite, and recently had two cavities filled. Her favourite colour is sunset orange. She’s got –”

“Alright, enough! Jesus Christ, shut up! Why do you know all that?” 

“Anything,” Arthur says, and blinks hard for a moment. His head sways, and then he continues. “Anything might be important.” 

“Is it wearing off?” Donald moves to get up, but Mickey waves him back down. 

“No, he’s just metabolizing more of it. We actually don’t want to kill him,” Mickey says, and Eames breathes a sigh of relief. Mickey remembers he’s there at the noise, and turns to him with an unpleasant smile.

“Arthur,” he says suddenly, and Arthur’s head comes up, his eyes still unfocused. “Tell me about Eames. What do you know about him?” 

“Best forger in dream share,” Arthur says automatically. “Six feet two inches tall, one hundred and seventy three pounds. Hazel eyes, dark blond hair.” Mickey and Donald both turn to look at him – he’s dyed his hair and is wearing contacts, so he’s got black hair and brown eyes currently, but Donald leans in to look at his scalp.

“Truth,” Donald says. “His roots are showing.”

“Continue,” Mickey commands Arthur, who stares at Eames for a moment without answering. “Arthur,” Mickey warns. “Tell me his name. You must know that.” 

“Eames,” Arthur says, vacantly. 

“His full name.”

“Eames,” Arthur insists, and now despite the fuzziness he’s beginning to look a little wild. 

“Donald!” Mickey snaps, and Donald’s suddenly yanking his head back, a knife at his throat.

“No,” Arthur says. Mickey turns back to him.

“No, what?”

“No, don’t.” 

Eames is still processing that Arthur is worried about him, and he’s not at all concerned about the knife. He’s almost positive that the two of them are too professional to kill them right now. And he’s still got Yusuf outside somewhere, probably checking the houses or waiting for the right moment. 

“Why not?” Mickey presses.

“I don’t want you to.” 

“Arthur, you’ve got to be more forthcoming than this, or I might put a bullet in him. Nowhere immediately fatal, but…” he lets the sentence dangle, then grins quickly, boyishly. “Do you like him?” 

“Yes,” Arthur says, and then after a brief pause. “I always have.” 

This, apparently, is Arthur’s drug-addled attempt at being forthcoming. Eames thinks he might be a little bit fond of this truth serum they’ve dosed him with. 

“Oho,” Mickey says, absolutely thrilled. “Does he like you back?” He glances at Eames, who resolutely keeps his mouth shut.

“We’re not in third grade,” Arthur points out, still a smartass whether he’s drugged out of his mind or not. Donald, who apparently got top marks in the looming-unspoken-threat classes doesn’t wait for Mickey’s orders, just yanks Eames’ head back a little further, pressing the knife a little closer. Arthur makes an aborted noise that might have been a word or a whimper, but he just sighs again. “No,” he says. “Eames doesn’t like me back. We’re colleagues. I’m the best point man he knows, and he only works with the best.” 

Which is a lie, about him _only_ working with the best. And about the liking back, but he figures it’s more like lust anyway, and Arthur has no way of knowing in either case. He’s just telling it as he sees it.

“Tell me his name,” Mickey says, cajoling. 

“Eames,” Arthur says again, and Mickey stamps his foot. 

“Tell me!” 

For a moment, Eames doesn’t think Arthur even _knows_ his full, real name. _But,_ a little voice in the back of his mind pipes up. _He knows how much you weigh. He can’t possibly not know your name._

“Tell me everything you know about him right now,” Mickey orders. “Or I’ll have Donald cut him open like a fish.” 

Arthur lets out a shuddering breath, head hanging. “Daniel,” he says. “Daniel Markus Eames, Private Eames, Captain Eames. In the Royal Army for seven years, involved in the SAS dreamshare experiments. Born March 22nd, 1980 in London to Angela Larsen and Jackson Eames. Distantly related to the royal family through his mother, once arrested for petty theft. Graduated from the University of Edinburgh in 2001, majored in theatre and acting, minor in psychology.” The facts spill out, more than Eames even _remembers_ in some cases. “Prefers cheese pizza, red wine, and anything with chocolate in it. Allergic to shellfish and dogs. Almost married his high school sweetheart before she decided she was a lesbian and moved to California, named Serenity Garth.” More, and more, and more, dry facts delivered in a wispy voice, things Eames had once thought were buried forever, or just entirely personal. “Favours the colour red, especially on fast Italian sports cars,” Arthur says, and both Eames and Mickey snort in amusement. 

“Okay, enough,” Mickey says before Arthur can go on. “Why do you know all this? Were you ever planning on writing a biography on him?” 

“No,” Arthur says, sighing again. “I can’t string two words together on paper. I like him. I wanted to know more about him. I never stopped looking.” 

“Okay,” Mickey says, clearly caught between impressed and disturbed. “Do you stalk everyone you like?” 

“I stalk everyone,” Arthur says. “It’s in my job description.” 

“Specificity, Arthur,” Mickey snaps, slamming his hand down on his thigh. Arthur jumps, then almost laughs. 

“No,” Arthur says. “I’ve never liked anyone before. Just Eames.” 

And isn’t that confession one that hits Eames right in the gut. He feels breathless, and he’s not the one who’s high and running off at the mouth. 

“What, ever? Haven’t you ever slept with anyone? Are you _saving yourself_ for him?” 

Arthur musters up a glare, but it’s weak and fades as he slumps slightly. “I’ve had lovers,” he says. “Why is this important?”

“Why, Arthur. Because I want to know everything you’ll tell me. And also for leverage.” 

“What?”

“I want to know about inception.” 

Arthur almost doesn’t react.

“It’s not possible,” he says, a beat too late. 

“I know it is. And I know you were involved. I’m guessing Eames was too, am I right? Tell me about it. Who was your victim?” 

Arthur struggles for a long moment. Donald trails the knife along Eames’ collarbone, drawing blood and a faint stinging pain. The sight of the blood seems to sharpen Arthur’s focus on him for a moment, even through the drug-haze, and he sighs deeply. 

“The mark was Robert Fischer. Kenichi Saito wanted him to dissolve Fischer Morrow and Cobb was enough of a crazy son of a bitch to try it.” 

“Why? You must have known Fischer would come after you for it.” 

“Fischer wasn’t supposed to know,” Arthur admits. “And Saito offered us what we needed.” 

“What was that?”

Arthur almost speaks over him, offering the answer before the question is out. “Cobb needed to get back to his children. His wife killed herself, but not before accusing Dom of violence and pointing her finger at him, implicating him in her death. He fled the country with my help, but he just wanted to get back to his kids.”

“What did you get out of it? Besides getting Cobb out of your hair?” 

“We’d fucked up a job for Cobol. They wanted to take out their frustration on us. Saito paid them off and got them off our backs.” 

“What job were you doing for Cobol?” 

Eames listens intently, trying to ignore the lump with the knife still trained on him. 

“Saito,” Arthur said. “Routine extraction, but our architect fucked up. Saito turned it around, said it was an audition. Hired us for Fischer.” 

“So Saito was behind the inception.”

“I already said that.” Arthur blinks, frowns, and for a moment looks more aware than before. “What…?” 

Donald moves from behind Eames and plunges a needle down into Arthur’s thigh. Mickey loses his shit, and Eames slips the last of the ropes off his hands at the exact same moment Yusuf crashes through the window like an action film star. Eames is momentarily impressed; he didn’t think the mousy chemist had it in him.

“Get him,” Yusuf shouts, shooting both Mickey – red-faced from screaming about poison and overdosing – and Donald with some sort of dart gun. They drop to the ground, unconscious or dead, and Arthur’s back to lolling in his seat, awake but totally out of it. Eames scoops up the discarded knife and cuts the rope tying Arthur to the chair. Yusuf has busied himself with the syringes and vials the kidnappers have lying around, carefully stowing them in his bag. Eames picks Arthur up after he tries to stand and utterly fails, and they book it through the door. The van is waiting for them, Eames decides he’ll come back for his car later, and they’re speeding back towards Mombasa in less than five minutes. Eames is stretched out in the back, Arthur’s head in his lap.

“Hey, Arthur,” Eames says. Arthur blinks up at him, pupils blown wide. “Are you okay?” 

“I think so,” Arthur says, and he’s back to that breathy, hesitant voice as the drug makes its way through him. 

“Did they tell you what they wanted?” 

“Just… answers. Think Fischer… sent them.”

He feels a little twinge of guilt about continuing to question Arthur while he’s under the influence of a truth serum, but he’d be asking this no matter what had just happened. “What were you doing in Africa? I thought you were the one who told us all to lie low for a while. Like, preferably six months. That was your exact directive.” 

Arthur smiles bemusedly. “Since when … do you ever listen to me?” he asks. “Had a job. Didn’t I just say this? Linda Miller.”

“Lying low doesn’t include taking jobs, Arthur,” Eames says, frustrated. “I thought you were going back to the States. Why were you in Africa?” 

Arthur sighs, rolling slightly so that his cheek is lying on Eames’ thigh. “Wanted to check on you,” Arthur says. “I know you… can take care of yourself. But I wanted… to see you.” 

“What does that have to do with Linda Miller?” 

“Needed an excuse,” Arthur says, huffing a small laugh. “Could have said, was here as a favour. Small job, in the country, thought I’d drop by. See? Much better than ‘I’m checking up on you because I’m a paranoid, possessive bastard.’ Right?”

Eames threads his fingers through Arthur’s hair. “Are you a paranoid, possessive bastard?” 

“I’m checking up on you, aren’t I?”

Eames can’t help the laugh this draws out of him. He meets Yusuf’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, and Yusuf scowls.

“This is out of character,” he comments, fishing for information. Eames smiles.

“One of those little syringes you picked up has a functional truth serum,” he admits. Yusuf’s eyes light up. 

“You mean Arthur’s …?”

“Yes,” Arthur answers. “Now is the time to ask me anything. I’ll try not to hate you for it later.” 

“I have no questions,” Yusuf says. “Try not to hate Eames.” 

Arthur’s eyes soften as he rolls again to look Eames in the face. “I could never,” he admits quietly, and Yusuf is silent. 

“You were wrong, Arthur,” Eames says, still stroking Arthur’s hair. “I do like you. I like you a lot better like this,” he adds.

“This?” 

“No barriers. All your guard down. Actually answering my questions.” 

“I can’t help it,” Arthur says, brow furrowing. “Although… I could try to make more of an effort… if you still want to be around me when this wears off.” 

“I always enjoy being around you,” Eames says, feeling a bit like he’s been injected with the truth serum. A second later, he feels like he’s been punched in the gut, because Arthur’s smiling up at him with all the guileless cheer of a ten year old, dimples Eames has always suspected him of having on full display. 

When they get back to Eames’ house, Yusuf drops them off and promises to come back later to help Eames retrieve his car. It’s a shoddy thing, but it’s registered to the house, and he doesn’t want what happened in Kilindini to get back to him. Especially not with Arthur here. The point man practically falls out of the back of the van when he tries to stand, and Yusuf guesses that the drug is interfering with his motor skills. Eames practically carries him inside and deposits him on the couch while he gets them a drink. 

He checks his phone and finds seven different messages from Cobb and a text from Ariadne. 

_Eames,_ reads the text. _Cobb said he can’t reach either you or Arthur. Let me know as soon as you get this. Let me know you’re alright._

He texts her back quickly while Arthur lounges on the couch, trying to get past the lethargy induced by the drugs. Then he checks the voice mails from Cobb.

“ _Eames. I can’t get ahold of Arthur, where are you?” “Why aren’t you picking up?” “Goddammit Eames, pick up your goddamn phone!” “If neither of you pick up in the next five minutes, I’m dropping the kids off with the babysitter and coming out there.” “Saito sent his private jet. That means I’ll be there in about three hours, Eames. Pick up or die.” “I just landed in Cairo for a refuel. Can’t believe they couldn’t have flown straight to Nairobi.” “I’m in Mombasa, Eames, and if you don’t pick up your goddamn phone I will **murder you.** ”_

And because Cobb has a diabolical sense of timing, Eames has just deleted the last message when Cobb nearly batters the door down. 

“Answer the door, Eames, before I shoot the lock out!” 

From the couch, Arthur twists, looking a little more aware. “Is that Cobb?” 

“Leave my door alone, you tosser, and I’ll come open it like a normal person!” Eames hurries to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open only to have a gun shoved into his face. His eyes cross a little bit, staring straight down the barrel, and then he focuses on the ball of rage that is Cobb just beyond it.

“You’d better have a goddamn good reason for making me come all the way out here,” Cobb snarls. “Where the fuck is Arthur!” 

Eames puts his hands up and steps back, letting Cobb come in, fury rolling off him in tangible waves. He’s practically vibrating with it. 

“He had a little trouble,” Eames says, and watches some of the tension go out of Cobb when he catches sight of Arthur on the couch. “I accidentally left my phone behind because I was in a bit of a hurry, but as you can see, we’re both fine.” 

From the settee, Arthur pipes up, his voice slightly slurred and still fuzzy around the edges. “Technically, I’m not… fine,” he says, but he looks a hell of a lot more relaxed. Eames feels warmth spread through his chest when he realises it’s because Arthur’s not fighting the drug, that he looks relaxed because he _is_ relaxed. 

“What the hell,” Cobb says, and Arthur pushes up off the couch. Unfortunately, the drug is still interfering with his motor skills, and he sways in place for a second before he tries walking, and as soon as his foot comes forward his knee gives out beneath him. Eames nearly knocks Cobb over in his rush to catch Arthur, and he’s not quite quick enough but he does manage to get his body beneath Arthur’s so that he’s the one who impacts the floor. 

“Get back on the couch, darling,” Eames pushes at him, and Cobb is back to scowling and squinting, fingers flexing though – fortunately, Eames thinks – he’s put the gun away. 

“What the fucking hell,” Cobb says again, and his voice is dripping with danger. 

Arthur sighs, blinking too hard, and Eames notices that his pupils are still dilated, wonders if the light is bothering him. Without a word, he helps Arthur get into a comfortable position and closes the blinds. Arthur’s sigh is pure relief this time, and the grateful look he gets is worth the near-darkness of the room. “They wanted to know about inception,” Arthur says, while Eames gets another of the local beers from the fridge to give Cobb something to hold onto besides his gun. “They drugged me with something,” he adds. 

“Are you okay?” Cobb accepts the beer without looking at Eames and settles himself on the coffee table so he can look at Arthur head on. 

Arthur’s eyes slide across him like he still can’t quite focus properly. “My head hurts,” he says. “My _eyes_ hurt. I don’t think they got anything truly useful out of me,” he adds. “But it’s a little bit blurry.” 

Cobb is somewhat surprised by Arthur’s candor, and takes a sip of his beer. His surprise is almost comical then, as he looks at the beer as if it’s personally offended him, and Eames’ lips twitch as he realises that Cobb didn’t even notice he was holding it. Arthur’s filters being what they are – drugged into nonexistence – he snickers audibly. Cobb nearly drops the bottle.

“ _Arthur?_ ”

“Dominick Angelo Cobb,” Arthur says back, and Eames wonders if perhaps he’s having flashbacks to the questioning. Cobb certainly looks shocked. “They asked about you,” Arthur continues. “And Eames. They wanted to know a lot about Eames. Probably because they had him tied to a chair.” 

“They had you tied to a chair, too, darling,” Eames says, and Cobb’s looking back and forth between them like he’s never seen them before in his life. 

“What did they give you?” The words slip out in a whisper, and Eames can’t quite tell if Cobb meant for them to hear him or not. Arthur answers anyway, is compelled to.

“Glucobarbital-3,” he says. “Or at least, that’s what their chemist said. It is, I can say with authority, about two hundred times better than sodium pentothal.” 

It only takes Cobb about two seconds to make the connection. “A truth serum?” 

“In my flesh,” Arthur jokes, and Eames does a double take because Arthur _never_ jokes. He flashes back to _And I shall lead them on a_ merry _chase,_ and amends it to _almost_ never. Possibly depending on the stress of the situation. There are worse coping methods, after all, and sometimes ‘shoot everything that moves’ isn’t a viable option. “I’ve lost track of how many times they renewed the dose, and I don’t,” he pauses to breathe deeply. “…don’t actually remember what I was about to say,” he says. 

“Their pisspoor excuse for an extractor was worried about overdosing and poisoning,” Eames recalls suddenly, looking at Arthur with renewed anxiety. 

“Barbiturate overdosing can result in confusion, hallucinations, dizziness,” Arthur rattles off, as if he can’t help himself, and then pauses with an expression of faint horror on his face. “If those bastards kill me I’m coming back,” deep breath, “as a tiger and I’m going to find them and maul the shit out of them.” 

Cobb settles only on the first part of his statement. “Are you hallucinating?” 

Arthur fixes him with a bleary half-smile. “A bit,” he says. Eames and Cobb both jump like he’s bitten them. 

“Why didn’t you say something?” 

“We should get you to a hospital.” 

They speak almost on top of each other, but since Cobb’s is actually a statement, Arthur turns to Eames to make a response. “It didn’t seem important. I’ve seen weirder things.” 

“Not,” Eames starts, strangled, but Cobb cuts him off.

“No, really, you should be in a hospital.” 

“Unfortunately, I left my wallet in my jacket, which, also unfortunately, was left in Algiers when they abducted me.” 

“Saito is just a phone call away,” Cobb reminds him, and Arthur doesn’t answer right away. Eames sees him tracking something through the air with his eyes, and wonders how much of the slow blinks and pauses in his speech are him trying to convince himself that what he’s seeing isn’t real. 

“What are you looking at?” he asks before he can stop himself, knowing that it’s unfair in every sense of the word, because not only is Arthur seeing things, which isn’t good for his image, he’s _compelled_ to answer truthfully. He can’t not say anything, not with the amount of drugs in his system. 

“A flying cat,” Arthur says distantly. “It’s got golden wings and instead of hind legs, it’s a blue fish tail. It’s a flying mer-cat,” he amends, and laughs quietly to himself. 

“Jesus,” Cobb breathes. “Arthur, we’ve got to get you to a hospital.” 

Arthur waves him off. “I really don’t want to,” he says. Cobb deflates visibly, but doesn’t press it.

“If you start having trouble breathing, or you think you’re going to pass out or anything, you’re going and that’s final,” is Cobb’s last word on the subject. Arthur snickers again.

“Yes, daddy,” he says, and Eames gets to laugh at Cobb blushing like a school girl over being caught using his parental voice. 

Yusuf chooses that moment to call, so Eames excuses himself and ducks into the kitchen. “Whatever they gave him is a thing of great beauty. I’m sorry I missed the guy who made it,” Yusuf starts with, not even bothering with Hello. Eames wonders what happened to things like phone etiquette. 

“Glucobarbital-3, Arthur says.”

“That’s more than enough for me to get a line on it,” Yusuf answers, voice trailing away as he’s probably researching on his computer. “Oh, right, I called you for a reason. We still need to get your car. Is Arthur good to go with us?” 

Eames almost loves Yusuf in that moment. The chemist is something of a loner by nature; Eames is pretty sure he’s Yusuf’s only friend, especially with the freaks that hang out in his den dreaming their lives away. But despite his hatred of leaving his lab and his den and his shop, Yusuf has a wonderfully huge heart, offset beautifully by his mercenary nature, and Eames sometimes thinks it’s no wonder they’re friends. “Cobb’s here,” Eames says. “Arthur can stay with him. With Cobb in Rottweiler mode, I feel pretty okay with leaving them by themselves. In fact, I pity anyone who tries to get in the gate.” 

Yusuf laughs, and says he’ll be over in five minutes. “Tell Cobb I said hi,” he says. “I’ll come in when we’re sure your car is back where it belongs. They should still be unconscious; I gave them a pretty high dose, and that stuff’s no slouch. I wanted to make sure we wouldn’t be followed, especially since they’ve already grabbed Arthur once.” He rings off, and Eames goes back to the living room.

“Yusuf says hi,” he informs Cobb. “He’ll be here to make nice after we’re done cleaning up after ourselves. He also mentioned something, Arthur,” Eames pauses to give Arthur a chance to focus on him. “He’ll be here in a minute, but I wanted to ask. How did they get you in the first place?” 

Arthur sighs. “This isn’t my most dignified moment,” he says, and Cobb reaches out and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. Eames is envious that he can do that so easily, but doesn’t dwell on it. “I was with Carlisle, doing the extraction on Miller.” Cobb scowls a little, but doesn’t interrupt. Eames can see on his face that he’s about to ask why Arthur was taking jobs inside his own dictated lay-low period. “I came up first, like always, and they were waiting. Probably chloroform, because all I remember is having the hulk he was calling Donald grab hold of me, then I woke up in a plane. We came down in Nairobi, transferred to a jeep, and by that time they’d injected me with the glucobarbital. Then, my phone kept ringing so Mickey made me hand it over to him. I think he answered it at some point.” Arthur directs a fuzzy glare in Eames’ direction. “Was it you who gave your name as Joey, or did I hallucinate that?” 

“That was me,” Eames says, but before he can add anything else, Yusuf’s outside leaning on his horn. “Cobb, you can stay here with Arthur for an hour or two while Yusuf and I take care of these goons, right?” 

Cobb doesn’t hesitate. “We’ll be fine.” 

“There’s food and more beer in the fridge,” Eames says. “It shouldn’t be that long, but make yourselves at home.” 

Arthur looks around as if he’s seeing it for the first time. Maybe he is, Eames thinks. “Is this your home?” 

“Home is where your rump rests,” Eames says flippantly. “So yes, for right now this is home.” 

“Huh,” Arthur says, still looking around. “I’m in Eames’ house. Fancy that.” 

“You owe me a tour of your favourite place later,” Eames says, but then Yusuf’s calling him and he has to go. The last thing he hears is Cobb asking, “Mickey and Donald?” but he doesn’t dare stick around to hear Arthur’s answer. 

It’s a relatively short trip back to the house, and Eames checks on the two men. As Yusuf predicted, they’re still out cold, but Eames takes a few extra minutes to practically mummify them with duct tape, just to discourage their sticky fingers when it comes to his point man. He collects his car, and they drive back, Yusuf continuing past Eames’ house to get back to his lab and continue deconstructing the glucobarbital. When he comes in, Arthur’s still curled up on his couch, though Cobb’s apparently raided both his kitchen and his bedroom, because there’s a blanket draped over him, and two empty plates on the coffee table. 

Cobb puts one finger over his lips when Eames shuts the door, and glances tenderly down at Arthur. “He’s asleep,” he whispers, and collects the plates. In the kitchen, Eames takes another beer while Cobb washes up. “Sorry about the blanket,” Cobb says, keeping his voice down. “I didn’t know where your thermostat was, and he said he was cold.” 

“It’s fine,” Eames tells him, and doesn’t voice the thought, _you could have just put him in the bed,_ because he’s still not sure what it is he feels for Arthur, or if it’s going to last beyond the temporary neediness. “How’s he doing, other than cold and apparently tired?” 

Cobb sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s probably going to mess him up when he comes down,” he says. “You know as well as anyone that he doesn’t like to be so out of control of himself. I don’t even see him drink that much. I actually can’t stay long, Rebecca’s got school tomorrow and she can’t keep the kids forever.”

“She’s probably already in school,” Eames says, trying to compute the time difference. “Or was. I don’t know.” 

“I don’t either. Anyway, make sure they don’t get him again. And make sure you take care of him. I will _end you_ if anything happens to him,” Cobb adds, his hand flickering to his holstered gun for just a moment. 

“As long as he’s with me, I won’t let anything happen to him,” Eames promises, and vows to himself that Arthur’s not leaving his sight for the foreseeable future. Cobb leaves, his exit a hell of a lot quieter and more peaceful than his entrance was. Eames takes up his position of watchfulness on the loveseat, patting himself on the back for having furniture like a normal person so that he can both watch TV and Arthur in comfort, and still allow Arthur to stretch out comfortably on his sofa. 

Arthur sleeps for perhaps an hour, and then gets restless. “Eames,” he mutters, but when Eames looks closer he appears to be still sleeping. Torn between letting him sleep – god knows he looks like he could use the rest – and waking him up out of what appears to be a nightmare, the decision is made for him when Arthur jerks suddenly and slides right off the couch. Brown eyes blink open and the first thing Arthur does upon seeing him is smile. 

“Hey,” he says softly. 

“Hey yourself,” Eames says back. “You okay?” 

Arthur carefully pulls himself back up onto the couch before answering. “I feel like shit baked onto a stick,” he admits. He looks a little bit better, but Eames still doubts if he’s been sleeping or eating properly. 

“Bad dream?” 

“Oddly enough, yes.” Arthur stares at nothing for a few minutes, and then shakes himself, refocusing on Eames.

“Still seeing things?” 

“Sort of,” he says. “It was… well, the wall was talking to me.”

“What did it say?” 

“I don’t know. It was gibberish.” He smiles, though, and doesn’t look too torn up over it, so Eames lets himself relax. “Ugh. I’ve been having nightmares ever since inception,” Arthur admits. 

“You look like you haven’t been,” Eames starts and then thinks better of it.

“What?” 

“Taking care of yourself. What have you been doing since?” 

“Moping,” Arthur says. Eames is sceptical, and it must show up in the expression on his face because Arthur laughs humourlessly. “I was,” Arthur insists. 

“Why?” The word slips out before he can stop it, and Arthur reacts by pushing both his hands over his mouth to keep from opening it. “I take that back, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” 

“Yes I do,” Arthur sighs. “I can’t – you don’t understand, it’s like… I think I – might need to leave after this,” he says, clearly _not_ what he was originally going to say, and then adds, “because something during inception changed the way I look at you, and I was moping because you’re straight, somehow, and will never look at me like I want you to,” he finishes all in a rush, and then tries to get up from the couch. He’s marginally more successful at standing and walking this time, but he’s using the sofa to keep himself balanced and he’s not moving very fast.

Eames is up and leaps over the sofa to intercept him before he can get very far. “Hey, hey,” he says. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

“Possibly to go throw myself in traffic,” Arthur says, and Eames feels a stab of ice in his stomach because Arthur’s still under the influence and that is a true statement. “I have completely embarrassed myself and ruined any professional credibility I have with you as it is, and now I’m making everything worse.” 

“Sit back down and listen to me,” Eames says. “Inception changed a lot for me, as well. So did seeing you today. I meant it when I said I liked you, and that you without all your layers is just charming me even more.” 

Arthur’s face is flushed red, and even in the semi-darkness of the room Eames can feel the heat radiating off him. 

“Also, what gave you the impression that I’m straight?” 

“Serenity Garth,” Arthur answers promptly. “You don’t nearly marry people if you’re not in love with them.” 

Eames waves it off. “She was … almost a mistake. Leaving me was the best thing she ever did for our relationship. We came to grips with our sexuality about the same time, and we broke the engagement with no hard feelings on either side. I bet your research didn’t turn that up,” he adds cheekily. “By the way. I am not at all okay with you writing a biography about me without my knowledge. Enough with the creepy stalker type. If you need to know something, just ask.” 

“Will you tell me the truth?” The words are so quiet, that Eames has to turn them over in his head a few times to make sure he’s heard correctly.

“For you darling, always.” 

Arthur worries his lower lip between his teeth for a moment. “I want to kiss you,” he blurts out, and then covers his face with his hands. “Please never let anyone inject glucobarbital into me again,” he begs, and Eames doesn’t bother dignifying _that_ request with a response, not when he’s got something so much more interesting to be focusing on.

“What’s stopping you?” he asks, and then gently pries Arthur’s fingers away and kisses him softly, first on the forehead and cheeks and eyelids and the tip of his nose before finally letting his lips brush Arthur’s. It’s not a fairy-tale kiss; there’s no fireworks going off, and the background music is a decidedly unromantic laundry soap jingle, but it’s warm and perfect all the same. 

“I liked that,” Arthur says when they pull away. It’s not even the most romantic kiss he’s ever shared with anyone; there was no tongue and minimal movement, just a straightforward lip to lip contact, but he grins crookedly at the point man and thinks, _I liked it too._

Arthur leans his head against Eames’ shoulder. “I’m so tired,” he admits. “It’s been nearly three months since I slept the entire night, but I feel like the inside of a sewer. Do you have a shower I can use?” 

Eames hesitates, but only because Arthur’s still seeing things and swaying dangerously, and he’s not sure if he should let the other man alone that long. Arthur correctly interprets the pause, and gives a half-laugh.

“I promise to sit down so I won’t fall, and I’ll leave the door open so you can hear me if I have to yell for you,” he says. “But I haven’t washed in several days, and I’m disgusting.” 

Eames relents, if only to give Arthur a modicum of control back, and as promised the point man deliberately leaves the door open when he sheds his clothes – his weight loss is more pronounced when Eames can see the entirety of his body bared like that, but he doesn’t seem self-conscious about it – and sits in the tub before leaning forward to turn the water on. Eames gathers his things and puts them in the wash – he paid an obscene amount of money to have the washer installed, but he’s just as happy to have it and not have to pay each time to wash his clothes in public – which is helpful, especially when he’s trying to get bloodstains or suspicious ink spills out of the fabric – and he’s got a line in the yard where he can hang things to dry, which gives his clothes a kind of comforting stiffness while imbuing them with the scent and feel of the wind and sun from outdoors. 

He calls back several times to make sure Arthur’s still breathing, and receives a sincere, “Thank you _so much,_ ” from the bathroom. He doesn’t have much that’ll fit Arthur, but he manages to find a tee shirt that won’t hang too badly on him, and a pair of sweat pants with a drawstring. 

“There’s clothes here for you,” Eames says, announcing his presence as he deposits them on the sink. “It’s not much, but your things are in the wash, and I’m guessing that the rest of what you have is in Algiers?” 

Arthur pokes his head out from behind the curtain, still in a sitting position, and he grins gratefully at Eames. “Yes, thank you. I appreciate it,” he adds, and Eames pulls out a clean towel and puts it within grabbing range from the tub.

“Not a problem at all, Arthur. I like being depended on.” 

“I hate the necessity,” Arthur says, sighing. The water cuts off, and Eames hands him the towel, averting his eyes like the gentleman he is when Arthur begins drying off without standing up. He keeps his back turned while Arthur dresses, makes sure he’s alright, and then helps him out into the living room. Arthur starts to sit on the floor when Eames sprawls across the couch, but Eames shifts his knees a little bit and tells Arthur to basically cuddle with him.

“I want you to,” he says, and sees Arthur pause just a moment before coming to a conclusion and shimmying up onto the couch, leaning his head against Eames’ chest.

“I want to, as well,” he admits, and Eames smiles widely because Arthur can’t, actually, see out of the back of his head. He finds a movie on the TV that they’re both interested in, and yanks the blanket Arthur had been using earlier over both of them. 

The movie’s only about halfway over when Arthur settles more fully against him, really letting Eames take his weight, and Eames gingerly puts his hands on Arthur’s stomach. Arthur’s breathing is deep and steady.

“Alright there, Arthur?” 

A gentle snore is his only answer, and he can’t stop the almost manic grin that spreads across his face. He settles himself into the couch, making himself comfortable, and watches the movie until he falls asleep, too.

The first thing he’s aware of when he wakes is a solid weight pressed all along his body, and he forcibly keeps himself from tensing while he tries to figure out where he is and what sort of situation he’s in. The next thing he realises is that there’s something warm fluttering over his throat, and he cracks his eyes open, relaxing when he sees Arthur and remembers falling asleep with him. Arthur’s only a few inches shorter than he is, and at some point during the night he turned over. They’re hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder, Arthur’s feet tangled up with Eames’ ankles, his face buried against Eames’ neck. He shifts slightly, breath hitching, but doesn’t wake. Eames becomes aware of the fact that one of Arthur’s hands is gripping his tee-shirt like he’s afraid Eames will leave him, and the other is in his hair. Arthur’s fingers tighten briefly as his hips move, and Eames is suddenly, intensely aware that Arthur’s hard against him, and he’s rapidly getting to that point as well. 

Arthur lets out a tiny exhalation that’s not quite a moan, his fingers tightening almost painfully against Eames’ scalp, but it doesn’t matter because a moment later his hips jerk again slightly and the flush of pleasure outweighs the tiny sting of his hair being pulled. “ _Eames,_ ” Arthur breathes, and then his breathing stops for a second. Before Eames can become worried about that, Arthur’s pushing up and off of him, retreating to the end of the couch. Eames feigns just waking up, blinking blearily at him and stretching. 

Arthur’s curled up with his knees at his chest, probably to hide his obvious erection, and Eames has no such compunctions about his own. He simply rolls off the couch, stretches out again – he’s no stranger to sleeping on his own couch, especially when he’s alone and just can’t be buggered to get up and go to bed, but it’s different after waking up with Arthur sprawled across him like an overgrown cat – and grins.

“Good morning,” he says. “Sleep well?” 

There’s just the faintest tinge of red across Arthur’s cheeks. “Yes, thank you,” he says, and clears his throat. “Um, thank you,” he says again, more hesitantly. “That’s the best night’s sleep I’ve gotten in… a long time.” 

“Happy to be of help,” Eames says, and then excuses himself to the bathroom. He jerks off quickly and goes through the rest of his morning ablutions in a hurry so that he can free up the bathroom for Arthur if he needs it. Arthur’s lurking outside the door when he finishes, and he manfully keeps his eyes on Arthur’s face. “I’m going to make some coffee,” he says. “Want some?” 

The expression on Arthur’s face will fuel fantasies for the rest of Eames’ life. “Oh, _please,_ ” he breathes. Eames steps out of the doorway and lets him do what he needs to. 

“There’s a spare toothbrush in the drawer,” he offers through the door, and then makes his way to the kitchen so he’s not listening to Arthur jerking off in the bathroom like a creeper. He wonders how long Arthur had been standing there, and if he heard anything … untoward, and then decides it doesn’t really matter. Arthur takes long enough in the bathroom that Eames is almost positive he’s _taking care of himself_ and bites his own tongue to keep himself from mentioning it. Arthur seems to be better, but the drugs might still be working on him and Eames doesn’t want to break whatever they’ve got by making an ass out of himself and pushing Arthur to tell more than he’s comfortable with. 

When Arthur finally wanders out, the coffee is ready and steaming on the counter, and he sinks gratefully into a chair as he inhales the steam. “Oh my god,” he practically moans, and Eames is about to take his good intentions and chuck them. “Thank you,” Arthur says.

“If this is the reaction I was going to get, I’d do it every morning,” Eames quips instead of any of the more filthy things passing through his brain. It wins a brief smile from Arthur, who immediately focuses on his coffee. “I think I might actually be jealous,” Eames says, eyeing the mug Arthur’s wrapped both hands around. 

“No need,” Arthur says, and there’s a teasing glint in his eye. “The coffee wouldn’t let me sleep on its couch, so you’ll come out on top every time.” 

Eames physically bites his lip to prevent the comment from escaping, but Arthur just sighs around his mouthful of coffee.

“You may as well say it,” he says without even glancing at Eames. The forger wonders if he’s really become this predictable, or if Arthur has just somehow gotten to know more about him than he ever dreamed. 

But then the words won’t be held back any longer, not when he’s got _permission_ to utter them, and he bursts out with, “Actually, it was you who was on top this morning.” 

Arthur tries to hide his grin, but his eyes crinkle at the corners and the hint of a dimple gives him away. “Sorry,” Arthur says.

“Don’t be,” Eames automatically replies. “It was worth every second.” 

That garners him a raised eyebrow, and then Arthur finally parts with the mug, setting it down half empty on the table. “Well,” Arthur says, and there’s a hint of stiffness to him that wasn’t there a moment ago. Eames wonders if he accidentally took things too far, but then he realises that Arthur’s stifling another grin, if the way his lips are twitching is any indication. “If it’ll even the odds at all, you can be on top tonight.” 

Eames is glad he wasn’t drinking just then. As it is, he nearly chokes when he tries to breathe spit anyway. Arthur looks alarmed, but Eames waves him away, his face feeling like it’ll break in half if he smiles any wider. “I’d break you,” he says, looking at Arthur’s bony frame minus so much of the weight and muscle he used to have and considering himself – he’s only gained weight in the past couple of months, all muscle of course, but still. 

Arthur bursts out in a helpless trill of laughter, and something in the back of Eames’ mind says, _I could get used to this._

“You could try,” Arthur dares, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. It’s as if he knows _exactly_ what Eames is thinking, and what effect he’s having. Eames rethinks that, and then decides, no. He _does_ know exactly what Eames is thinking and what effect he’s having. 

“Oh,” Eames says suddenly, deciding to change the subject before he does something rash and uncouth like pressing Arthur down over the table. “Are you still…?” and unable to decide on the right word, he just circles an index finger by his temple. 

“No,” Arthur says, leaning back and relaxing into the subject change without comment. “Try me,” he adds, because apparently Eames doesn’t look convinced.

“What’s your name?” 

“Arthur Callahan.” The lie rolls smoothly out, just like it should, but Eames wants to see what else he’ll say. 

“What’s my ex-fiancée’s name?”

Arthur schools his expression into something approaching surprised. “You had a fiancée?” 

They go back and forth a couple of times, Eames asking more and more ridiculous things, some of them remembered from the questioning Mickey put Arthur through, and some of them made up off the top of his head. “What was my first car?” 

Arthur starts to lie, frowns for a moment, and then thinks about it. “Wasn’t it a Toyota Corolla?” 

“How do you _know_ these things?” 

“It’s my job,” Arthur says, smugly. “It was a 1997, pale blue, and it was the first thing you bought when you came over from England,” Arthur adds, proving once and for all that he was either telepathic or just had incredible potential for creepiness. 

Eames is silent, shocked right out of his words for a moment. “Do you like me?” The words burst out almost of their own accord.

Arthur gives him an understated smile. “Of course,” he says, and then glances down at the coffee. “Of course, I might also be using you for your couch and your coffee, but you’ll have to figure that one out on your own.”


End file.
